


easy, baby, maybe i'm a liar

by catteo



Category: Rookie Blue
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 22:46:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3095123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catteo/pseuds/catteo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post S2.</p>
<p>Somehow, no matter what he does, Luke always ends up letting the people he loves down. Gail's not letting him wallow in that kind of self-pity.</p>
<p>
  <i>I'm a mess right now, inside out. Searching for a sweet surrender, but this is not the end</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	easy, baby, maybe i'm a liar

**Author's Note:**

> So. This has been languishing on my hard drive for what seems like a million years. This is, hopefully, the boot up the ass I need to get it actually finished. I’m posting the part that is finished and intend to sort the hell out of the rest of it at some point. Feel free to nag me until it gets done. Alternatively, I’ll use part two for the great fic redemption 2016. That’ll totally work. This, obviously is for [this year's redemption.](http://waltzmatildah.livejournal.com/201274.html)

Jerry’s words are like a punch to the gut, blindsiding Luke and leaving him reeling. He tries hard to work a response past the galling taste of the truth, burning in the back of his throat, but Jerry’s gone before the words even form, ignorant of the chaos he’s caused. Luke tries to move, but he’s frozen in this moment, the same phrases roaring in his head, deafening in their honesty.

 

_She’s been seeing Sam while he’s been undercover._

_“Who’s Candace?”_

_Seeing Sam._

_“It’s McNally.”_

_Seeing Sam._

__

 

He knows that he has no right to expect anything of her after what he did, but he thought Andy was better than this. Thought she was a better cop than this. He wraps himself in that certainty and ignores the small voice in head that tells him he’s being irrational. Luke draws his anger around himself like armor and prepares for the onslaught to come.

 

In the end facing Andy is even worse than he imagined. Her single-minded drive to find Sam reminds Luke of all the doubts he had when they were together, the fear he tried so hard to bury every time he saw that the two of them were riding together. Each of his words is carefully picked, every one barbed and positioned to wound. Luke can tell from Andy’s face that they’ve found their mark, but his own scars are too fresh for him to care. Peck’s voice is calm, breaking the tension that threatens to overwhelm him, and then, _somehow_ , it’s over and he’s in his office, his back to the wall, drawing in a shuddering breath. Long moments pass before he’s able to fight back the emotion threatening to break through his carefully erected walls. Finally his racing heart slows to near-normal but still he feels fragile, ready to explode at the slightest touch.

 

The station’s a hive of activity, chaotic, everyone trying to put together Swarek’s last movements, desperate to save one of their own. Luke watches them through the glass, their single-minded determination, and feels the guilt settle in. It’s familiar now, fits him like a second skin, constantly reminding him of all the times he wasn’t good enough. He figures he’ll just add this latest outburst to the list of ways in which he let Andy down and tells himself he won’t let it happen again. For a moment he allows himself to wonder why she still trusts him at all.

 

It still surprises him sometimes when he realises that they’re not really rookies any more. The speed with which they follow the threads that lead back to Boyd is nothing less than impressive. He can’t help but notice the way they work together, quick and efficient. It’s a stark contrast to his half empty office with bleached squares on the walls where his story used to be. The proof he’s presented with is incontrovertible, the pieces snapping together in his head. His misplaced anger of earlier flares to rage, white hot, at the evidence before him and he’s grateful for the interruption allowing him to escape the room. 

 

Luke isn’t sure how long he’s been staring at the mug-shot on his computer when his door is unceremoniously swung open, Peck announcing her presence with a beaming smile.

 

“Hey, Homicide, I was, uh, wondering if you were going to eat that?” She gestures at the paper bag sitting on a messy stack of files. “It’s just, you know. The rookie got us burgers but Pho is my favourite because, yum, Vietnamese. And you’ve kind of commandeered the whole lot. So.” She draws the last syllable out, finally pauses for breath with a hopeful look on her face.

 

“Rookie?” He raises his eyebrows pointedly.

 

“C’mon, Luke, he barely looks old enough to be on solids. At least I’m legal.” She gives him the full Gail Peck look of innocence and he feels a smile tug at his lips for the first time in what feels like weeks. “So whaddaya say? Spare a girl some noodles?”

 

“Sure.” It comes out on an amused huff of air and he’s fairly sure that she’s managed to get an actual smile out of him.

 

Luke watches out of the corner of his eye as Gail busies herself rummaging in the bag for chopsticks. She offers him his own carton, but his stomach is churning and he declines with a quick shake of his head, turns his attention back to the screen in front of him. He’s startled by the harsh sound of metal protesting at being dragged across the floor as Gail moves a chair and slouches down next to him. She answers the look on his face with a shrug.

 

“What? I don’t eat alone.” She busies herself with lunch.

 

“Good to know.” He’s a little bemused by the fact that Gail would choose to stay, but, if he’s honest, it’s a relief not to be sitting alone. It’s a thought he almost regrets when Andy walks in moments later.

 

Andy’s all business, sits herself quietly down opposite him after greeting Gail -- gets a salute with a chopstick for her troubles -- and asks him what they do now. Luke’s grateful that it’s a question he actually knows how to answer, and quickly outlines Boyd’s seemingly telepathic powers in guns and gangs. He’s halted, momentarily, by Gail’s ignorance in the matter of The Amazing Kreskin, filing it away for future reference. His voice gathers momentum again as he explains his theory. He doesn’t even realise that he’s standing until Andy mirrors him, nodding in understanding.

 

“Alright, what do we do?” He’s not sure what throws him more, the blind trust on her face, or that she’s including him at all. 

 

“I don’t know.” He’s been turning the facts over in his head for the last ten minutes, frustrated that he’s no closer to proving any of it.

 

“You just stood up. I thought that meant that you knew what to do.” She tails off, disconcerted. 

 

Peck looks up at him, face matching Andy’s expression, and suddenly he _does_ know what to do. Feels a certainty that he hasn’t experienced since Jo arrived all those months ago. He’s probably more brutal than he should be as he tells Andy that she’s staying behind. He knows that otherwise she’ll follow, and she’s already put her career on the line once today. Luke’s aware that he’s probably punishing her more than necessary, but his wounds are still raw and he’s never found it easy to be the better man.

 

Peck indicates that she’s grabbing her bag and he watches her as she threads her way past the desk where Dov and Chris sit, heads together, coming up with improbable escape plans that Swarek might be executing. The trainee sits listening, enthralled, and Luke suspects that nobody else sees Gail steel herself as she hears laughter trailing behind her. He allows himself a moment to wonder what happened between her and Diaz. Her bitter words of a few weeks ago run through his mind. He figures she’ll tell him if she needs to. He allows himself a barely suppressed grin at the _children_ she throws their way, and holds the door open as she breezes past him.

 

++++

 

“Homicide, you okay?” It comes out of the blue. She’s driving again as he flicks through case files, and he looks up to find her glancing at him as she checks the mirror for traffic.

 

“Eyes on the road, Peck.” 

 

“It’s driving, not rocket science.” She says it with a shrug and a roll of her eyes. “And don’t change the subject. I mean, Swarek and McNally compromising a UC op? You’ve got to have some feelings on the matter. Or are you being the strong, silent type?” She pauses. He feels more than sees her glance at him. 

 

His lips twist in a bitter smile. He’s not sure where he would even begin. Sorrow and jealousy coiling around the remorse that fills the hollow of his chest. He’s never been good at letting people truly know him, prefers to keep them at arms length. After Jo he promised he’d try to be more open, more honest. It turns out he’s just as good at lying to himself.

 

“Earth to Luke. Are you even listening?”

 

“Peck, I’m fine. Just drive.”

 

He regrets the words almost before they leave his mouth. He can hear the huff of disbelief as she registers the tone of his voice. 

 

“Whatever.” It’s said with an eye-roll and a tone of incredulity, as though she doesn’t care. The rest of the ride is spent in silence, marked only by the soft whisper of Luke turning the pages of the files in his hand. She pulls up outside the bar without a word. Hauls on the handbrake like it just insulted her. Luke takes a second to really look at her, lips not so vivid as usual, a hint of purple under her eyes, and realises that perhaps he’s not the only one hurting.

 

“Hey.” She looks out of the window as he says it, deliberately turning away. He figures he deserves it. “Gail.” Her name feels strange on his tongue, as though there’s more to it than vowels and consonants. It gets her attention finally. She glares at him, and he can see all her walls snapping firmly in place. He’s lost count of the number of times today that he’s wished he was better at all of this. “I’m okay. Thanks for asking.” Luke isn’t certain that he manages to convey all the things that need to be said, feels like he’s veering between lies and half-truths, but she finally gives him a lopsided grin and a nod. 

 

“You’re welcome.” Said as she huddles into her seat for warmth and he gets out of the car. He props the door open, relishes the burn of cold air in his lungs, leans back, and waits.

 

The rest of the day passes in a blur of accusations and denials, and an encounter with Boyd that leaves him furious. He’s sitting trying to work out the knots in his hands -- indelible ridges and half-moons on his palms -- when Gail wanders into his office and sits on his desk.

 

“They found him.” She smiles. His breath catches in his throat and he’s terrified that the tongue of ice running down his spine is envy. “He’s beat up, but he’s okay. Thought you’d want to know. You helped.” She’s gone almost as quickly as she entered, catching sight of Traci and Andy walking back into division. 

 

Luke busies himself putting away files and starting the write up of his report, anything to delay having to analyse the thoughts racing through his head. No matter what he does his mind keeps going back to the fact that Sam compromised an operation, risked everything, for Andy. And she didn’t even falter, didn’t think twice before jumping in, heart and soul. The evidence is there, irrefutable, and any tiny hope of reconciliation he may have foolishly held has finally been extinguished. All he can hear is Gail’s voice, like a premonition.

 

_We’re out in the cold_

_It’s over_

 

++++

 

He’s starting to recognise the sound of her steps, purposeful as she crosses the room. He’s already half turned from his desk as she asks if he’s coming to the Penny. He can feel the burn deep in his gut at the thought of facing Andy, the apology he’s not quite ready to make; can barely summon the effort to decline. Wasted, in the end, as she demands a ride he doesn’t have the heart to refuse. He knows better than anyone how it feels to be lost and grateful for the offer of calm in a storm.

 

He takes a final look at Boyd’s photo before he flicks the file over, makes a conscious effort to leave it sitting where it falls. He pulls his jacket from the back of his chair, wraps his scarf loosely around his neck before shrugging it on. Luke’s barely made it three paces from the front door before Gail’s there blocking his way, hood pulled low on her forehead, head tilted to the side and demanding his full attention. The tip of her nose is slightly red from the cold and she looks startlingly vulnerable for a second before the familiar shields lock into place. 

 

“Vodka or single malt?” She looks at him intently, as though this is a test he could fail, a challenge clearly visible in her eyes. White mist forms in the air as her breath mingles with his on the wind. 

 

“Tequila.” He tries to ignore the relief that courses through his veins as she ducks her head to hide a smile, briefly nods.

 

“So maybe your taste doesn’t completely suck.” The heat of her arm as she links it with his is startling, a slow burn through tendon and bone, unanticipated and unfamiliar. 

 

Gail drags him around the back of a truck pulled up beside the station, fogged glass making the dark interior impenetrable. He feels her shiver as she reaches to pull her hood further up over her ears, using the arm that’s not currently occupied with leading him towards the parking lot opposite the station. She’s just slightly ahead of him, her face hidden in shadow, breath fogging the icy air, and he wonders how it is that she seems so completely in control when he feels as though everything’s falling apart.

 

His eyes trace the asphalt, the inky black delicately laced with a network of ice crystals, dark cracks beginning to form as winter wins its battle. He’s startled by the loss of her body heat as she pulls away from him. He feels as though he’s been set adrift with nothing to anchor him, suddenly lost. Luke glances up to find her looking at him, two bright spots on her cheeks from the freezing air, a slight crease between her brows and a query on her face. 

 

“Homicide. It’s _your_ car. You have the keys.” Each word cut short in the cold as she hugs herself to keep warm, bouncing slightly on her toes. “C’mon, hurry up. You offer a girl a ride you should probably let her in the car.”

 

“I don’t actually think that I _did_ offer.” He focuses on fumbling in his pocket for the keys, finally feels cold metal slick between his fingers. It takes long moments before he manages to unlock the car, the sound of it ringing loud in the silent air.

 

“Semantics.” She shrugs as she flings the door open, throws a mass of files onto the floor and hunches down in the passenger sheet. “Heat. Now.”

 

He allows himself a half-smile as he eases himself into the drivers seat next to her and turns the key in the ignition. He flinches, nearly deafened by the radio blaring to life. He reaches for the volume, surprised when she swats his hand away.

 

“Don’t. These guys are great. You’re full of surprises tonight, aren’t you Homicide? First tequila, now the Jezabels? Next thing you’ll be telling me you play ice hockey in your spare time.” She narrows her eyes at him, inquisitive, but he’s a master at this game, only reveals as much of himself as he needs. He smiles blandly back at her, knocks the gearstick into drive, and peels out of the lot.

 

+++++

 

The Penny’s packed when they finally arrive. It seems to take forever to press through the muggy press of bodies, the humid air in his lungs threatening to overwhelm him. Gail slips away as they move into the room, not pausing to offer an explanation. Familiar white noise begins to thunder through his skull as he pushes his way to the bar, pretending not to see the furtive glances thrown his way. He feels the slow burn of resentment in his bones, relishes its familiarity as he slides onto a stool on the far side of the bar, away from the celebrations. 

 

He feels an arm clap firmly around his shoulders, Oliver shaking him slightly in his enthusiasm, a beaming grin on his face. 

 

“Buddy!” The word drawn out to twice its normal length, a slight smell of beer on his breath. “Nice work today. Epstein tells me you were a big help getting Sammy out of there. Y’know, that whole Candace thing apparently hasn’t even been going on that long. Just a few weeks really, so it’s not like they were ready to announce it to anyone. Well, at least that’s what Sammy…” he tails off as Luke feels himself go rigid, betrayed by his own muscle and bone. “Yeah, well, I guess it’s better to know, right? That’s what I always say, better to know the truth than not. You’re probably fine with it though. I mean you must be back in the saddle yourself by now, huh? Huh?” He elbows Luke in the ribs, knowing grin on his face.

 

“Oliver.” Luke’s saved from having to respond by Gail’s interruption. He has no idea where she appeared from, just grateful for the fact that now all he has to do is concentrate on a slow inhale, deep exhale. 

 

In. 

 

Out. 

 

Harder than it sounds. 

 

“Having a good time? Jerry’s wondering where you got to. I think he’s considering sending out reinforcements to get the drinks in.” She puts her hand on Oliver’s shoulder, only to have him grab it and plant a kiss firmly on her knuckles as he makes a slight bow, unsteady as he does so. Gail manages an insincere lift of the corners of her mouth as she slowly moves her hand back out of reach. 

 

“Ahh, Peck. I don’t care what anyone says, you’re a peach. Peachy. Peachy Peck.” Oliver moves off with a chuckle and shake of his head at his own joke. 

 

“Wow.” Gail turns to Luke, eyebrows high with disbelief, rolling her eyes.

Luke concentrates on the bar, tracing concentric circles on rough wood grain with his fingers. Every so often they catch on some sticky remnant of a drink, a reminder of better nights. He doesn’t bother to respond. Doesn’t trust his voice not to betray him. Gail shrugs her jacket off, black leather catching the light, and slides up onto the stool next to him. He can feel the weight of her stare on him and finally looks up. Her elbows are propped on the bar, a single eyebrow raised, expectant look on her face.

 

“Thanks.” Somehow he manages to force it past the bitterness that seems to have taken up residence somewhere in the centre of his chest, racing through his body with every heartbeat. Oliver’s words still slicing through barriers he’s spent months erecting.

 

“Whatever.” She shrugs. “You’re buying.” He can sense her growing disbelief as he tries, and fails, to attract the barman’s attention for a full three minutes. Finally she lets out an exasperated huff of air and takes over. “Hey! Ed! Two of the usual.” Shot glasses appear in front of them as if by magic. She shoots him a look of triumph as viscous liquid pools and drips over the rim, adding to the swirling chaos on the bar top. 

 

“Leave the bottle.” His voice sounds rough in his own ears, soft words catching on sharp edges.

 

“We’re not getting morose are we? I don’t do depression with my tequila, just salt and lime.” He doesn’t bother to answer her, just raises his drink in her direction. The tap of glass against glass is lost in the shouts around them and he relishes the burn in his throat, the fire in his chest as he swallows. Gail throws her head back, lets out a satisfied sigh and pushes her glass back towards him with a finger, signals for a refill.

 

“Top three movies of all time. Go.” She fires the words at him like an assault. Four shots in and he’s finally getting over the events of the day. He hesitates. “C’mon. You do _watch_ movies, right? Not too busy doing whatever it is you do when you’re not at work?” A pause. “Are you ever not at work?” It’s not said with malice, but it hurts all the same. 

 

“Yeah, Peck, I watch movies. When I’m not at work.” It sounds childish even to his ears.

 

“So?” She runs a hand through her hair. Flicks her fingers into the air to emphasise her point, her expression demanding. Luke’s never been able to turn down a challenge.

 

“Fine. Top Gun. Spy Game. The Notebook.” He’s not remotely surprised when she lets out a peal of laughter. 

 

“Really, Homicide? _Really_?” Her nose wrinkles in disbelief.

 

“What? That movie got me through some tough times.” He can feel a smile beginning to tug at his cheeks, surprising in its honesty. The knot in his chest loosens slightly, and the air in his lungs finally fills the fraying spaces.

 

“Mmmm. Ryan Gosling do it for you too, does he?” There’s no venom, no sting behind her words. He’s almost surprised at the sudden realisation that he’s actually enjoying himself.

 

“No. Top Gun. I can’t get enough of that beach volleyball scene. Although Ryan Gosling does build a pretty great house.” The grin finally reaches his eyes as she lets out a bark of laughter and pours another round. “My turn?” 

 

“Hit me with it.” She nods as she reaches for the salt and props herself up on the rungs of the stool, stilettos hooked over the rungs, to reach over the bar and steal a few slices of lime. Ed raises his eyebrows at her, but she’s undaunted, just gives him a cheery wave. Ed slowly shakes his head, and Luke gets the feeling that he’s not the only one that’s been poured into a taxi at closing time. Luke indicates his refusal of the proffered salt, momentarily distracted by the swipe of Gail’s tongue across the back of her hand. He closes his eyes, concentrates instead on the mouth-watering sweet-sour lime sliding across his tongue, discounts the brief pang of attraction as nothing more than the alcohol doing its work. Drags his thoughts back on track.

 

“Top three places that you’ve ever been.” He expects her to hesitate, but she levels her gaze at him, grey-blue eyes that lock onto his.

 

“Paris, Withrow Park in winter, and Vegas.” She fires them off like bullets, sure and certain, as though she knows what’s coming next.

 

“Care to explain any of those?” 

 

“Not really.” The look on her face indicates that his question was exactly what she expected. “My turn.” She picks up a toothpick, starts twirling it absent-mindedly between her fingers. “Top three places to go drinking. And _this_ doesn’t count as one of them.”

 

“The ‘Shoe, The Piston, Cowboys Ranch. Not necessarily in that order.”

 

“Cowboys? Really? Luke,” He offers her a bland look. “That place is a shit hole. I honestly thought that you had better taste than that.” She actually seems disappointed in him this time.

 

“That’s what you focus on? Despite my other _excellent_ choices? C’mon Peck. It was the Academy. I was young. And pretty stupid. And they have a mechanical bull. Who doesn’t love a mechanical bull? And may I point out that you have clearly been there also.” He hopes that the smile he shoots her is charming, but he’s suddenly on unfamiliar ground. Feels panic slowly building at his core, a pressure in his chest beating at his ribs, trying to break free.

 

“Whatever. It was the Academy.” She smirks at him as she fires his own words back at him. Seems disappointed as she empties the last of the Tequila into the glasses sitting in front of them. Luke looks up, surprised to find that the bar has emptied out, no familiar faces in sight. He’s grateful for it, for the fact that there’s no need to force a congeniality he doesn’t feel. He throws back his final drink, adding to the fire already blazing at the back of his throat, nearly chokes on it.

 

“Smooth moves Homicide. No wonder you have such luck with the ladies. I will see _you_ tomorrow.” She leans in close as she says it, the heat of her breath against his neck makes him dizzy, electricity sparking beneath his skin. Before he has a chance to draw breath she eases herself off her seat and pulls her jacket on, soft leather clinging to curves. He tries not to watch as she leaves without so much as a backward glance. Fails spectacularly.

 

“Yeah. She kind of has that effect.” Ed’s looking at him with understanding. “Want me to call you a cab?” Luke shakes his head slowly, trying to clear it of the haze of tequila and something more disconcerting. Decides that he’d be better off walking. It’s not until Ed pushes it towards him that he realises Gail’s left him with the tab.

 

++++

 

Sunlight burns through closed eyelids as the thundering in his head drags him to consciousness. His tongue, rough as sandpaper, seems glued to the roof of his mouth. It’s long moments before his brain manages to process the fact that the pounding in his skull is, in fact, coming from the door of his apartment. He cautiously eases his body upright, inches his eyes open against the blinding light streaming through floor to ceiling glass. His room’s over-warm, fuzzy around the edges and he rubs a hand roughly across his face, through his hair, trying to bring edges into sharp relief. It’s like wading through molasses, but finally he gets to the door and wrenches it open.

 

“Coffee.” She thrusts a take-out cup under his nose and marches past him into the hallway without pausing, platinum hair pinned back, lips back to their usual crimson.

 

“Peck.” Said with resignation as he pushes the door closed, turns, and walks straight into her back. He barely manages to stop the scalding drink from burning a path down his arm as he takes a hurried step sideways.

 

“It’s still there.” It’s barely a whisper, her voice blurring on the last word. He looks up to find her eyes fixed on the floor, toes at the edge of a rusty stain on the floor. She seems suddenly less sure of herself.

 

Luke only shrugs, easier than telling the truth. How Andy spent weeks by his side in a hospital, begging him to fight, praying to a God that he didn’t know she believed in. That she finally, triumphantly, brought him home, dark head tipped towards his as he slung his arm over her shoulders. The look she gave him as she confessed that she hadn’t been able to wash the blood away, like she was afraid all his stitches would break and he’d bleed out all over again. He’d squeezed her hand, reassuring, told her they’d cover it up with a rug or something, was rewarded with a beaming smile. The night she left he sat and stared at the chaotic swirls, felt their mirror image creep under his skin. He wonders if the best of him is still there, mapped out on the concrete, with only a broken shell left behind.

 

He tears his eyes away, swallows hard, trying to ignore the lump at the back of his throat, and walks to the kitchen. It takes him three minutes and two drawers before he finds the Advil, buried under batteries and spare hair ties, dark strands caught between the elastics. He dry swallows a couple of them, washes them down with coffee almost as an afterthought. The gentle pad of footsteps on tile announces Gail’s presence.

 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think…” Her voice trails off, a frown creasing her forehead.

 

“It’s okay. There used to be a rug. Andy took it with her.” Consonants and vowels tied together with half-truths and failures. “Thanks. For the coffee.”

 

“You’re welcome.” She nods once, eyes still searching his face. Luke has no idea what she’s looking for. Doesn’t know what to think of the half smile she offers him moments later. “So. You always open your front door dressed in last night’s clothes?” This is better, more familiar, the give and take that helps his feet find solid ground.

 

“Only the best for you Peck.”

 

“Thanks.” She pauses. The word seems to hang in the air forever. “I had no idea you cared. Incidentally, are you changing? You just…” She drags air in through the corner of her mouth and shoots him a rueful look, all mock sympathy and insincerity.

 

“Changing what?” His head feels as though it’s full of cotton wool, thoughts getting tangled in sticky threads. He wonders how he’s supposed to keep up. Still has no idea how Gail, of all people, ended up on his doorstep.

 

“Really? You’re _that_ hungover? I expected more of you, Homicide, I really did.” She shakes her head ruefully but he can make out the laughter hovering in the creases around her eyes. 

 

“What’s the matter Peck? You afraid someone might think you’re the reason I’m doing the walk of shame?” He regrets the words almost the instant that they leave his mouth. Whatever this is between them is new, fragile, and he’s hesitant to demand anything more than it is. Friendship and the offer of safe harbour in a tempest.

 

“Sure. Like anyone would believe you’d get that lucky. I owe you a ride and I? Am never late.” She changes the subject with a speed that leaves his head reeling. “Move it, Homicide, or I’ll make you walk.” With that she flops down onto his couch, swings her feet over the arm, boots dangling casually in the air, and turns on the TV. An arm pops up over the back of the sofa, fingers flick, shooing him towards his room. Luke sighs, scrubs his hands across his eyes and heads for the shower.


End file.
